Light At the End of the World
by East-Coast-Invictus
Summary: This is for longforgotten light at the end of the world...' Jack and Barbossa talk of the Locker. [oneshot]


"_Sea without a shore for the banished one unheard_

_He lightens the beacon, the light at the end of world_

_Showing the way lighting hope in their hearts_

_The ones on their travels homeward from afar…"_

"The Islander" – Nightwish

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If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the mournful cry of souls through the rigging. That was the only thing it could be, this plaintive sound, for there was no wind to be found in Davy Jones' Locker. The sound was so familiar but he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before. There was the semblance of something he could almost see but every time he tried to focus, there was nothing. Nothing except a golden dot of light, a lost memory.

When Barbossa opened his eyes, nothing had changed. He still stood at the helm of the _Black Pearl_ with his hands resting on the railing before the wheel. The sun still beat down on the ship, its heat rising in shimmering waves from the black of the deck. The rigging and sails still hung limp from their pulleys.

Just how did one escape Davy Jones' Locker? Tia Dalma had immediately slapped down the idea of following the same trail Barbossa had when he was resurrected. That path could only be walked once. But now even the omnipotent mystic seemed at a loss as to how to escape her hand-made purgatory. The crew moved listlessly about the ship with no idea what to do. And it seemed there wasn't anything they could do.

A sigh fluted through Barbossa's nose. Nothing to do except think. A thoughtful gaze on his boots, he turned around to lean against the railing, crossing his arms over his chest.

He stayed unmoving in that position for a good few moments until the _Pearl_'s other captain came up to the helm. Barbossa looked up at Jack Sparrow past the brim of his hat. Jack ran a hand over the wheel as he approached, meeting his fellow pirate's look. Though he always had been what Barbossa in jest called a borderline psycho, Jack seemed a little more unhinged when they found him in the Locker – scattered, mad. As well as he knew the man, it almost concerned Barbossa, this change in Jack.

But now, Jack genuinely looked serious, mouth forming an uncharacteristic line under the black mustache. "It's been suggested to me by a certain distressing damsel tha' I should be th' one to ask you if you've come up wiv an idea yet on how to get out of this place," he said haughtily.

"The lass told ye t' come up here, didn't she?" Barbossa replied, speaking with a little less chide than he usually did, turning his head to look out at the endless horizon. Jack frowned slightly, following his gaze, brow furrowed.

"I came up here of me own accord, thank you. Elizabeth merely hinted I should bother you."

"Oh, yer good at that, ain't ye?"

"You know…I don't think you mean that in the way you mean for it sound." Barbossa looked back at Jack to find the younger man watching him. And though he would've denied it any other time, he knew Jack was right.

--

Barbossa grunted flatly, visage disappearing under the angle of his fedora. Jack laughed lightly to himself, moving to lean against the railing, facing the opposite direction Barbossa was. It was strange, though. He wasn't receiving the why-am-I-being-bothered-by-this-brainless-twit vibe that Hector usually emitted. The older pirate actually seemed a bit introverted and frankly, it bothered Jack. Yes, they did hate each other's guts enough to maroon and-or shoot each other but before all the mutinying and revenge seeking, they had been crewmates once upon a time.

"Did you get to see it?"

The question even took Jack off guard and he'd been the one to say it. Barbossa finally looked directly at him, obviously confused. "What?"

"The light. Did you get to see it?" He watched Barbossa look back down at his boots, the toe of one of them tapping slightly.

"I did," he said, looking back up but not meeting Jack's gaze. Jack knew this was entering potentially dangerous waters. It didn't comfort him to talk about the Locker and from the older man's odd mood, Barbossa was of the same mind. But something was pushing him to speak, to speak to someone apart from himself...and goodness knows he'd done _that_ far too often of late. Jack could even see his selves standing down there on the deck, aiming a pouting expression at him from below as if to say, "How dare he?"

Fiddling with one of his rings, Jack looked away from the other Jacks with an awkward clearing of his throat. Pushing the enveloped further, he asked, "What about the man? The…lamp-lighter?" This time, it took Barbossa much longer to answer, his head bowed and eyes closed in what must be thought. To Jack, it seemed he was trying to remember something.

Just the mention of the 'lamp-lighter' was making Jack see him as if he was standing there beside him – benign face staring out at him, eyes kind but unsettlingly dark. It had been chilling finding someone else there even if was only for a few short moments.

"The lamp-lighter…" Barbossa nodded slowly to himself. "I'm of a mind t' believe I seen 'im." Silence. "Why d'ye ask?"

Like his reluctant companion, Jack took a few thoughtful moments to himself, rubbing at a patch of gun powder on the back of his hand. "Did he say anythin' to you?"

"No." This time Barbossa's answer wasn't long in coming. He finally seemed to have sifted through his undoubtedly troubling memories of the Locker. "He said nothing." He'd only received a somewhat sad, somewhat hopeful smile from across the fog covered waters. Jack appeared to withdraw into himself, expression amazingly unhappy.

"He thanked _me_ but…for what reason, I don't know. I was just a prisoner. Wasn't even goin' t' the other side like you did."

Barbossa surprised him by saying, "I never got to the other side, Jack."

"You didn't? You were dead."

"There be no denyin' that but the Locker…" The older captain cast a venomous, disdainful glare at the endless seas. He shook his head slightly. "It is as much a purgatory fer us as it is a prison fer you." Jack entertained this thought for a moment, deemed it true. But mostly, Barbossa mentioned an 'us'. He could only assume he meant the other souls, the world's unseen that now whistled through the rigging.

"You needed Jones t' ferry you," he said gravely. Barbossa didn't need to respond with an affirmative; the legend was common knowledge now.

"Better he didn't. Wouldn't be here if he had." Jack watched Barbossa turn to look at him, a bit of the old spark coming back. Jack suppressed a groan. "An' neither would ye, come t' think of it."

"You are severely underestimating me, Hector. I would've found a way out before long on me own, thank you."

Jack was offended and Barbossa was a jerk but nevertheless, the two captains came away from the conversation that no longer existed with a little more understanding of each other. Neither of them would ever admit to it, of course.

--

The end of the world is a dark place. Unnatural silence chills the body, quiets the mind. The dismal ambience weighs heavily on an already weakened soul. Thick fog blankets the dark waters and there seems to be no end to the grey mass. Occasionally, a long boat passes slowly through the last gate bearing in its stern sheets the recently deceased-at-sea, who peers around him in curiosity, despair, confusion or even mute indifference. He huddles in the boat, both inwardly and outwardly lost by the oft-times casting about of his gaze.

It is the rumble of water and the whisper of a wind that seems to bring him out of the death-induced stupor. Blinking, he can pick out a dark shape in the thinning fog. As the boat draws closer to the roar, he finds it is a dock. The structure is dark from the dampness of the moisture around it and it seems to be extending from the fog itself. A small boat with tiny latine sails rests idly next the dock at the end of a rope. At the end of the dock is a lamp post about seven feet tall. And perched on a stool is a man who is reaching up to light the lamp. Its luminescence lessens the gloom with an almost warm touch, the fog in the air gold in the presence of light.

The deceased grows curious, leaning forward a little to get a closer inspection of this spectre. The man climbs down from his stool, waving a match to extinguish it, and his face is finally visible. They, meaning the souls, never really pay much attention to garb. The lamp-lighter was an old man, his hair a mixture of silver and white under a tri-corn hat. But in spite of the crow's feet that creased around his eyes and the smile lines disappearing into his short beard, the man appears robust. Being of the sea himself, the deceased easily picks out that the lamp-lighter is a mariner.

In one hand, the lamp-lighter holds a black clay pipe, a tendril of white smoke drifting up from the bowl. The other hand he raises simultaneously in greeting and farewell. His craggy features split into a smile as the boat passes. His voice cuts through the fog like a horn. "Best of luck, my lad," he says. The deceased never reply. They never do remember him. For a while, he watches the soul drift away with a melancholy air. His duty is to light way but he knows that they are headed to a purgatory that they are unlikely to escape.

Gradually, the long boat slips by and away towards the roar of the waterfall. The lamp-lighter, puffing on his pipe, sits down on his stool. In the absence of those ghosts he lit the way for, he has time to think. A smile beneath his brow, he thinks to a most recent traveler and the traveler's beautiful black ship.

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Dislcaimer: For sake of clarity, I don't own Nightwish and their songs. Or Pirates of the Caribbean...

Reviews are greatly, _greatly_ appreciated. 8D


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